Home
by Santana1
Summary: Eliot isn't the only one that finds his way home after a difficult job.


Home

By Santana

The white hat really doesn't suit you, but I like the hair…

His ears were still ringing from the gunfire, his adrenaline was still pumping, and the smell of gun powder clung to him the way Parker clung to money. He was mad, nervous, scared, and torn. Nate had let Moreau go, and Eliot felt betrayed. His emotions were churning between the four feelings as he rode his motorcycle home. The spitting rain was icy cold and kept him aware of his surroundings. He was thankful for it, for without such a useful distraction, he would be lost in his thoughts. His main goal now was to make it home and lick his wounds…both physical and emotional. He would go after Damien Moreau later. Moreau would not get away again.

The old farm house was a welcomed sight as he rode up the long gravel drive. The tree line opened up to a view of an old two story farm house and barn and the sight was like a balm to his tortured soul.

He rode over to the barn, taking a moment to open the door and drive inside. He parked his motorcycle in a stall, one fitting for his shiny steed. His horses whinnied, happy to see him. He smiled at them, as he made his rounds greeting each one by name. In a way, these were his children, they were always happy to see him, and he them. Brandon had taken good care of them while he had been away. Hiring the young man to take care of the animals and things around the house had been a good decision. Satisfied that his charges had enough food and that their stalls were in good condition; he made his way toward the door. On his way, he spotted his old 67 pickup, allowing his hand to ghost over the primmered fender of the old Chevy, as if it were one of his horses hips. It would be finished one of these days. He took one look behind him before turning out the light, and leaving the security of the barn.

The old floor board squeaked, as he made his way onto the front porch of his house. The railing wobbled a bit, and he made a mental note to fix it once he felt better. Within moments he was inside, his boots now sat beside the front door, as he worked at the fireplace to get a fire going to warm the old place up a bit. Soon the living room was filled with a warm glow that relaxed him a bit more. Above head, the tin roof sang with each rain drop that hit it. Another sound accompanied the crackle of the fire and the rain pelting the tin roof; his stomach started growling. It had been a while since he had last eaten.

There wouldn't be much in the fridge for quick dinner. Being away so often, it wasn't practical to keep fresh produce or milk on hand. But he was surprised to find milk, apples, salad fixings, oranges, eggs and a bag of chocolate chips inside. The chocolate chips told him who had been there. "Parker" he drawled slowly, his southern accent hanging heavy on each syllable of the thief's name. A small smile threatened and the corner of his lip curled slightly just before disappearing as irritation set in. She had been in "His" house again. Changing the locks had been pointless…He had known it would be, but the thief would have been disappointed in him if he didn't try to keep her out. He guessed, subconsciously, he was just trying to keep her happy. He had to wonder when he started caring about the happiness of the thief. It was obvious that she cared about him. It wasn't the first time that he had come home to find that she had left her mark, in some fashion, on his place.

Sitting down at the rustic table, his plate of fruit and a small salad before him, he ate slowly. It was quiet, just the way he liked it. And even though he was at home, he sat with his back to the wall with the kitchen door in full view. It was more than a habit. It was as deeply rooted in his nature as his accent; the need to be in control at any given moment.

As he ate, he began to calm slightly. As his adrenaline faded, he began to feel twinges of pain. Pulled muscles from jumping, landing on not so soft things, and slamming his leg against a crate, among other things. He finished off his meal with two extra strength Tylenol to ward off any other aches that might be coming down the pike.

He sat back from his meal, running his hands through his hair, he wasn't so shocked to find the fingers on his left hand tangle in hair matted with dried blood. "Great…just great." he muttered. He had been grazed across the back of the head. It wasn't life threatening, and probably wouldn't need stitches, but it would be a pain when it came to washing his hair. He figured he'd be pulling the knit hat out again. It was a perfect way for him to handle bad hair days.

He made his way slowly down the hall to the bathroom. His body growing stiff quickly while he sat and ate his dinner. The hitter looked into the mirror and wondered if he were getting too old for the job. He was only in his early thirties, but he was sure that eventually there would be someone younger, not necessarily better, that would come gunning for him . Until then, he felt that he had found his place with the merry band of misfits he considered friends. Hitter , hacker, thief, grifter and mastermind…a modern day Robin Hood. The thought of Nate in tights made him smirk. Even though He wouldn't put it past the older man to actually wear them… "Would probably borrow Sophie's." He mumbled as he pulled off his shirt, wincing as shoulder muscles retaliated the meager movement. Checking himself closely he found dried blood on his back. Closer inspection revealed a nasty looking splinter. No doubt from one of the many crates, pulverized by gunfire. At least it wasn't a bullet. With a little twisting, happy to be so flexible, he was able to remove it. The splinter turned out to be about the length of his pinky. And hurt like heck coming out. Now there was a fresh stream of blood running down his back and all Eliot could see was a mangled Moreau's face…a silent promise of things to come. He tried to twist enough to put a bandage on the area, but wasn't successful.

"Do you need help?" Asked a quiet voice from the darkened hallway.

"I was wonderin' when you'd show up again." Eliot said in a tired growl.

Parker appeared in the doorway and shrugged. Her eyes were wide as she took in the darkening bruises. "do you get hurt like this often?" she asked, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

"I'm a hitter Parker. It's what I do, and most of the time I get hit back in the process."

"I know…it's just...well, you never say anything….you never ask for help." She touched his arm briefly before pulling her hand back and crossing her arms around herself protectively, a habit he'd seen often when she retreated emotionally. Though she had come a long way, he knew that reaching out wasn't easy for the young woman. It seemed they both had emotional scars, which was most likely the strange connection he felt with her.

"If I can't handle the job and the end results, then I've got no business doing it. I just have to be smarter and faster the next time. Would you give up if you set an alarm off?"

She frowned at him. "No!...Never."

"Well ok then." He turned and looked in the mirror again. Before handing over a damp cloth. "Just clean around it the best that you can, and slap a bandage on it. It should be alright."

She winced as she wiped away the blood, seeing the real damage laying beneath the oozing liquid. "Looks deep. You may need stitches. Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Nah, it'll heal up pretty quick." He said, handing her a handful of gauze pads and the tape.

Once Parker had done as requested and Eliot was satisfied with her work, he shoo'd her out of the bathroom so that he could take further inventory of his injuries.

With his pants off, he could see another bullet graze but this one was deep. His thermals had caught most of the blood and had made a temporary clot for the wound. That changed however, when he gingerly pulled the material away, causing it to bleed again. He winced from the pain, but didn't make a sound, knowing that Parker would be on the other side of the door listening. He only hoped that he would be so successful as he stitched up the wound.

Parker leaned against the other side of the bathroom door. She could hear cabinet doors slamming, smell the scent of alcohol, blood, and what sounded like a muffled yelp…frowning she turned and tried the door only to find it locked. "Not now Parker." came from the other side before she had a chance to call out his name. Her frown grew deeper…she hated being shut out. trying to think of something to do that the older man might appreciate, she decided to turn down his bed.

The stitches weren't pretty, but they would serve their purpose. He pulled the wash cloth from between his teeth and took a calming breath. He would rather face 4 guys in an alley than face Parker, and seeing her look at him with worry in those eyes of hers. Satisfied that he had his injuries well in hand, having cleaned, stitched and bandaged anything he could find that needed it. the rest would be dark bruises and would hurt like heck in the morning, but there wasn't much more he could do about those…but he didn't mind. they just reminded him of the pain he would serve Moreau when they met up again.

After tidying up the bathroom, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, noticing that the lamp was on in his bedroom. Frowning, he tried to walk without limping to the room. He was surprised to find the bedding turned down, an extra blanket, and pillows on the old iron bed. It was kind of hard to be mad at her good intentions, especially when the bed called to him and his body answered, as he felt what little bit of strength he had starting to wane. He wasn't sure where the thief was at the moment. She was like a cat in more ways than he could count. light on her feet, stealthy, and showing up when least expected. He knew she would turn up again eventually. He dropped onto the bed, the old frame squeaking a welcome home. He didn't bother turning out the lamp, because he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Up in the rafters that spanned the length of the room, Parker smiled as she watched Eliot sleep. Comfortable where she was, she decided to stay for a while and watch over her friend. If she was lucky, maybe she could persuade him to make chocolate chip pancakes in the morning. Smiling at the thought, she leaned back against one of the angled beams, taking in the patter of the rain and Eliot's soft snores. Finally, she had found a place where she felt at home.

End


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